


Riptide

by agnes_writes



Series: hiwaga [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror, Thriller, Urban Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agnes_writes/pseuds/agnes_writes
Summary: Two men chasing after a ghost ship gets exactly what they came for.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: hiwaga [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006926
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Riptide

There is a certain allure to the pale drops of moonlight reflecting on the pitch black waters of the Sibuyan Sea.

The smell of salt in the air, the soft caress of the sea breeze on one's cheeks as if a lover beckoning you to come closer, the calm waves resonating in their ears—there is a certain homeliness in the way these invade your sense, snaking itself deep into your core.

But it is a lie.

It is easy to fall for such illusions—like an engkanto casting a spell on a human, and they walk towards a cliff, to a trick of smoke and mirrors imitating perfection, only for it to vanish before their touch as they plummet to the jagged rocks below.

Once you are in the ocean's clutches, not even God can save you.

That was what Emman's lolo, a sailor from many years ago, had always told him.

Perhaps it is what drew Pietro to the bay in the first place, despite everyone's—including Emman's—warnings. He'd like to believe that Pietro would not be so rash in believing foolish myths and wasting his hard-earned money in proving them to be true.

And yet, here he is, standing at the foot of the dock, eyes glistening in the full moon, hair swaying with the gentle ocean wind as he takes in the rickety old ship—perhaps ship is not the right word for it, for all the ships they've ridden have been much cleaner, safer, grander... better than this—they are about to board.

And he looks achingly beautiful.

“Are you ready?” he says, turning to Emman with a sly smile on his face, mirth glowing from his dark eyes. Emman shakes his head, the seed of skepticism blooming in his chest as he observes the beginnings of rust forming on the ship's side, its faded paint apparent even in darkness.

“It's not as if you've given me a choice,” Emman replies, prompting a smile from Pietro's lips; something that Emman has often caught himself staring at before scolding himself. He could not resist returning it with a resigned shake of the head.

The wooden deck creaks as they step onto it, and Emman reaches out for Pietro's hand on instinct, something Pietro takes without another word.

“Do we really have to do this?”

“I told you time and again that I could have gone by myself.”

“And let you get yourself killed? I would rather not,” Emman quips, and fights a smile creeping onto his face as Pietro laughs, strong and melodic. It warms his bones, and for a moment, he barely felt the chill of the December air.

“You act as if I am a child that needs supervision.”

“Are you not, trapped in the body of 22-year-old man?”

“A very attractive 22-year-old man.”

Emman scoffs, trying his best to mask his agreement with the statement.

Pietro squeezes Emman's hand as they climb the steps to the upper deck, footsteps heavy. Anticipation thrums off Pietro's entire being, so palpable that even Emman finds it hard to not hold his breath at seeing the highest deck. The ship starts to move, swaying to the rhythm of the waters, rocking them back and forth. The motion sends a wave of nausea to Emman's stomach. The passageways are quiet, with only few voices floating in and out of earshot as they climb—Emman could hardly imagine what fools would want to spend their vacation in such a place.

Other than Pietro, of course.

A burst of cool air blows by, sending goosebumps up Emman's arms as they emerge to the top deck.

An audible gasp escapes both their lips as they see the stars—hundreds of them, scattered across the skyline, dotting the dark with their pinpricks of lights, accompanying the solitary moon in decorating the horizon.

“Wow.” Pietro whispers, and Emman nods, unable to tear his gaze away.

“Bet you don't see this everyday in those little cities of yours,” a voice behind them says, and a familiar face settles next to them, observing the night sky. Smile wrinkles line his eyes as the silver in his hair and his beard glow under the beams of the moon. He dons a simple, wrinkled t-shirt that looks worse for wear, and a pair of slacks that had been patched with a different mix of cloths. Still, he towers over Emman and Pietro, an air of authority mixing with the warm smile that he wears on his face.

“Kapitan Wil, this is quite a sight.” Pietro says, awe painting his voice. Kapitan Wil's smile widens, nodding in agreement.

Pietro was never good at hiding his intentions—it's a weakness Emman had always worried for; business is, after all, a game of cards as much as it is a political endeavor. One must never show all of their cards, lest they be swindled by their opponent. Pietro's easy charm and good looks work in his favor, gaining allies and trust among important people, but his open book personality is easily taken advantage of. Connections are vital, but so is strategy. That is where Emman had come into the picture—ever the skeptic, he keeps his eyes wide open for opportunities to strike, to calculate their next move, to keep his—and by extension, Pietro's—guard up.

Some might say they are perfect for each other.

“It's a shame many don't get the chance to see it,” Emman mutters, turning his eyes to the open sea. He slides his hand from Pietro, his steps careful as he approaches the metal railing barring them from falling into the water, wood creaking beneath his feet.

“Emman?” Pietro calls as he closes his eyes, letting the sounds of the waves wash over him, take over his senses. The wind is cool and steady, carrying the sea's salty scent his nostrils, the distant flapping of wings of seagulls the only thing breaking the tranquil silence.

Perhaps this trip was not a complete loss.

Perhaps his lolo had only been trying to scare him.

“The sea is calm.”

Kapitan Wil walks to him, peeking at the dark waters below. Emman opens his eyes to find him pressing his lips together, eyebrows scrunching. His gaze is scrutinizing, charged with... an emotion that Emman could not place.

“It is, isn't it?”

Pietro clears his throat, snapping the two out of their reverie. Emman's heart skips a beat as Pietro flashes his signature lopsided smile at him, arms crossed, dark hair windblown.

“So, Kapitan, you promised you would tell us more about...” he says, trailing off. Emman could barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. Leave it to Pietro to focus on the wrong things.

“You're relentless, aren't you?”

“A deal is a deal, Kapitan.”

Kapitan Wil grunts, then gestures toward the steps. “It's best we do it where no can hear us.”

Emman's face twists into confusion.

“There's no one here.”

Kapitan fixes him with a gaze that says _Do not ask_ , loud and clear.

A chill runs down his spine.

“Follow me.”

~*~

“That's it?” Emman could not help but ask. Pietro elbows him in the ribs, but Emman refuses to back down. The fear he felt not a few minutes ago has dissolved, leaving only an incredulous amount of exasperation.

Kapitan Wil's stare darkens—the gentleness melting away to reveal the fierce sea captain that he truly is.

“This is no laughing matter, boy.”

They are sitting in a cramped room beneath the deck—it is just as shabby and ragged as the rest of the ship; mold grows on the upper parts of the walls, paint chipped off in several random spots. The room's scent is damp and stale, the scent of the sea salt mixing with mold giving Emman a pounding headache. The chair Kapitan Wil uses looks as if it was about to give out, and the bed where Emman and Pietro sit is no better.

Emman's patience is wearing thin—he was in no mood for nonsense spooks.

“A ghost ship? That's all you could come up with? You make us pay that much money for—”

“Emman!” Pietro says, his voice sharp. Emman clenches his jaw, irritation coming to a full boil.

“Your friend here offered the money. And I'm not about to trade my life just to quench a reckless idiot's curiosity,” Kapitan Wil spits, his voice hard.

“Kapitan! I apologize. I forced my friend—” Emman flinches at Pietro's emphasis on the word, “—to come with me. He has nothing to do with what I want.”

Kapitan Wil crosses his arms on his chest, leaning back. His gaze is hard, and Emman could practically see the gears turning in his head. He bites his tongue from saying a snippy remark—but Emman hopes his expression says he is not happy to be there, either.

“This isn't some game a rich boy plays. This is our lives being ruined.”

“What do you mean? Have you encountered it before?” Pietro asks, his ears perking up.

“There's a curse on that wretched ship, and it brought it upon our entire island. And thank God above, I have never seen it.”

“And what is this ‘curse’, then?” Emman says, using his fingers for air quotes. Pietro sends him a glare, but Emman simply raises an eyebrow.

“Dozens of ships have sunken in this area, Emman, with thousands of people onboard.” Emman wants to clamp a hand on Pietro's mouth, if only to stop him from sounding so excited. “It's like our very own version of the Bermuda Triangle! I read things about the Romblon Triangle that—”

Kapitan Wil let out a harsh laugh. “Have you, boy? You don't know the half of it. I've lost friends to these waters, all of them claimed by that damned triangle, and you make it out as if it's some thrill ride.”

“Why did you accept Pietro's offer, then?” Emman asks softly, voice losing its edge, seeing the grief lining the Kapitan's face.

“I—we—needed the money. If there's one thing people on this island fear more than a watery grave, it's starving to death.”

“But what about the government, surely—” Pietro starts, but Kapitan Wil waves him off.

“Bah, when has the government ever paid attention to us poor fisherfolk? They don't give two shits—” Pietro's eyes widen at the word, “—about whether we die with our eyes open and our stomachs empty. We don't even have a proper hospital here, _Diyos ko_.”

Kapitan Wil meets Emman's gaze, and understanding floods him, a strange sense of remorse filling his chest. There are few things that Emman could fathom about their lives, but a will to survive, to strategize for their behalf, is something he can respect. He nods slowly.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Pietro asks, but Kapitan Wil scoffs.

“Unless you know how to get rid of that damned ship, then no, I don't think you can.”

“But—” Pietro starts, but Emman cuts him off.

“We could talk to some investors. They could listen. We could turn this place into a retirement haven, or a vacation spot.”

“Is that so, boy?”

“The island you have is unlike anything I have seen before—it's stunning, the forests, the mountainsides—sure, it's remote, but that is part of the appeal. I don't believe some idiotic curse is holding you back.”

Emman watches the Kapitan's eyes remain skeptical, cautious. Pietro nods along to Emman's offer, an enthusiastic sheen in his eyes. Kapitan Wil lets out a resigned sigh, standing from the chair.

“I don't want to hear any false promises from two children who don't know any better.” Emman could not blame him—he himself has heard too many offers that sounded too good to be true.

He meets Emman's eyes, then shifts his stare to Pietro.

“You best pray we don't see that ghost ship tonight if you want to live to see another day, boy.” Kapitan Wil turns to leave, leaving an ominous tension in the room.

“Sibale Island is torn between the devil and the deep blue sea.” Pietro says to himself, face determined.

To do what, Emman does not want to know.

~*~

“You can't sleep?” Pietro asks, placing a hand on Emman's shoulder. He leans on the metal railing overlooking the sea on the highest deck, breathing in the night breeze. There are a few people on the top deck now; mostly workers that are cleaning or moving crates and equipment, with a few other people that he could only assume are locals or people from the bagong bayan in Mindoro, visiting. Still, the sounds of their footsteps and voices were muffled by the steady wash of the waves in Emman's ears.

Clouds now cover the sky, shielding the moon and stars' view, leaving the ocean waters a pitch black void. A strange sense of foreboding creeps up on Emman, but he shakes it off as nerves from their argument a while ago.

“Not with all the ghost ship talk.”

“Oh come now, I'm sure it's not as bad as he says it is.”

“Were it true or not, this is foolish thing to do. If it is true, you would be risking your life to catch a haunted ship that sinks anything in its path, and if it is not, you wasted thousands of pesos getting us here for a fruitless endeavor.” Emman scowls, but Pietro shrugs his shoulders, his demeanor relaxed.

“It's not fruitless if it helped Kapitan Wil.”

Emman shakes his head, exasperated, swallowing down the tinge of sympathy. Pietro grabs his hand, catching Emman's attention. Warmth travels from his arm to his neck, down his spine. He feels his cheeks burning, and silently thanks the dim light of the moon for hiding his blush.

“Did you mean what you said about talking to investors to help them?” he asks, voice soft. Emman sighs.

“I wasn't wrong, was I? The island is beautiful.”

Emman gestures to the tiny island across the sea; in their short stay on land that morning, he had seen the island in its full glory. The island was mountainous, jagged and forested with caves, rivers that flowed with water clear as glass and hills that offered stunning views. The beach had looked ripe with unexplored coves and dive sites, a paradise for tourists.

“Since when have you turned so soft, Emman?”

“It's a smart business decision.”

“Oh, business talk yet again? Can't you live a little?” Pietro teases, bumping Emman's shoulder. Emman lets out a small smile, stifling his laughter.

The sea glistens a little brighter.

“I am living quite a lot, thanks to you dragging me onto this god-forsaken adventure.”

“And yet you love me.”

“Of course I—”

Emman stops and stiffens, his eyes widening as he sees it. Pietro tenses next to him, and Emman can sense his searching gaze on his face, but Emman could not contain the stab of fear in his gut.

“Emman, what is it?”

“Call Kapitan Wil.”

“Emman—”

“Call him!”

Pietro follows his gaze and pales, before turning on his heel and bolting down the steps. Emman's hands tighten on the railing, paling his knuckles. His breathing turns shallow as his eyes fix on a spot in the horizon.

Where a ship that glistens like gold sails.

He didn't understand, it was impossible—Emman hopes his eyes are lying to him, but even from afar, it matches what Kapitan Wil had told them. The Ghost Ship of Lolo Amang—the ship that sent hundreds of vessels and thousands of people to the bottom of the Sibuyan Sea, a ship that shines like gold against the dark night.

Heavy, frantic footsteps sound on the wooden board as Kapitan Wil bolts next to Emman, face pale, and eyes dark. He presses his lips into a thin line, and the sense of foreboding comes back full force, sending shivers up Emman's spine.

The clouds seem darker.

“Is that...?” Pietro asks.

“Well, rich boys always get what they want, don't they?” Kapitan mutters, but the tremble in his voice makes Emman's knees weak.

Kapitan's eyes flicker with uncertainty... and fear.

Kapitan Wil is afraid.

That disturbs Emman more than anything else. His heart begins pounding in his ears as he watches the ship float closer to them.

“Kapitan, what do we do?”

“We get the devil out of here is what.”

“No!”

Emman and the Kapitan turn to Pietro, who looks like he's discovered a gold mine.

Kapitan Wil steps toward him, jaw set and eyes blazing.

“You don't get to order me around, you insolent boy. You got what you wanted, now we're leaving.”

“It's so far away! I want to see it up close.”

“Have you lost your damn mind, Pietro?” Emman blurts out. His hands are shaking now, cold sweat pooling on the small of his back. The biting cold of the sea wind howling sends chills to his very core.

Pietro looks stunned. “Emman, are you—”

He pauses, looking right behind Emman, eyes shifting, forehead wrinkling. Emman knew that face. It means Pietro was observing something. He turns around to find the ship draws in closer, faster than what was possible. His stomach drops, fear coursing through his veins.

Then he sees it.

“Kapitan, look—” Pietro says, pointing.

A light signal blinks from the ship.

“Get me a piece of paper and something to write with, hurry.” Kapitan orders one of the crew members. They stumble on their feet, running as Emman stares. The light flickers at random intervals.

On. Off. On. Off.

Click. Click. Click.

Click.

Emman's lolo had told him stories about how ships communicated on sea when they were forced into radio silence. A light signal.

The Kapitan snatches the pen from a sailor's hand, furiously scribbling, eyes flitting from the lights to the paper. He writes down one letter at a time.

Morse code.

T.

The waters, as if on cue, start to ripple, and Emman's stomach drops like lead. The fear hits him full force, knocking the wind out of him.

U.

“Emman, what's going on?” the edge in Pietro's voice tries to draw him back to reality, but Emman's eyes are glued to the ship. His mind is racing, body frozen in time as he can only watch the beginnings of chaos reign. The wind howls a little louder, the clouds in the sky getting darker.

R.

The ship creaks underneath, almost making him lose balance. Pietro grabs his arm, steadying him. He is trying to put on a brave face, with his eyes stormy with determination, but his hands tremble.

N.

Pietro pulls Emman away from the railing as the ship sways, waves churning it violently. Kapitan grabs onto the railing to stay upright, still writing. Pietro tries to yank him back. The different workers start scrambling about, noticing the sudden change of weather.

B.

A scream pierces through the deck, Emman frantically looking for the source. He feels dizzy, too crippled by fear to move as the waves begin to roar from under them. Fear has him in a vise-like grip, paralyzing him as raindrops begin to fall, heavy on his face. He and Pietro fall on their backs. The Kapitan abandons the attempt and crumples the paper, face painted with absolute terror.

A.

Pietro grabs onto the railing of the staircase as the wind screams, whipping them around violently. He grits his teeth, knuckles pale as he secures Emman in his arms. Kapitan Wil reaches them, yelling for them to take cover. Emman unconsciously takes the paper from his hand. He can feel Pietro's grip on him slipping.

C.

“EMMAN!”

K.

Emman snaps out of it, arm grabbing onto the railing. He pulls himself up, coming face-to-face with Pietro. Fear, panic, and worry war in his eyes as the rain begins to soak them, the cold biting into his back. He unfolds the paper for Pietro to read and sees the message.

**_Turn back._ **

Emman's heartbeat roars in his ears.

A blood-curdling scream sounds from his own mouth as Emman finds a man slip and fall from their ship.

Into the sea.

He could not help himself as he runs to the railing, ignoring Pietro's shouts of protest. He looks into the forming whirlpool, a dark unfogiving abyss, ready to swallow them whole.

Pietro comes up behind him, trying to drag him back—Emman points a finger to the man who fell.

“We have to help him!”

“Pietro, no, look—”

The man screams and screams. His entire body is flailing, jerking around in the water, a desperate attempt to keep himself afloat as the vortex pulls him in.

Then a pale hand clamps around his ankle.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Dozens of bony hands emerge to the surface of the water, grabbing the man's limbs as he writhes in protest. One clamps his mouth shut, the others digging their long fingers into his flesh, and Emman sees what true fear looks like in the man's eyes.

Then they pull him under. The screaming stops.

The waves calm, faster than what seemed possible. The rain disippates, leaving Pietro and him soaked with rain and sea water. Emman looks to the horizon, reeling from the sight that he had witnessed.

No golden ship was to be found.

Emman turns to Pietro, pale, shaking from the cold and terror. He flinches as Emman brushes the damp hair from his face, hands still trembling. He looks behind Pietro to find Kapitan Wil standing, staring at where the man had fallen, stricken.

Emman catches his eye and he can tell they are grappling with the same thoughts—and are reeling with the same implications.

One: A man, a sailor on board, drowned tonight.

Two: There are creatures that lurk underwater in the Sibuyan Sea who killed that man; dragged him down with their long, wet, bony fingers to his watery grave.

And three: The Ghost Ship of Lolo Amang was not trying to curse them.

It was trying to warn them.


End file.
